


Three Times You Had to Tell Ratchet to Rest...

by ASimpleArchivist



Series: TFP Love [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: 'Sick Mind', (Optimus), (as always), (that should be a tag dammit), Anniversary, Autobot!Reader, Birthday Presents, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling, Cybertron, Cybertronian Reader (Transformers), Cybertronian!Reader - Freeform, Domestic Fluff, Earth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Friendship, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hospital, Iacon City, Implied/Referenced Character Death, I’m just proud I finished this thing, Jasper City, Kissing, Loss, Love, Major character death - Freeform, Medic!Reader, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Near Death Experiences, Mentions of Optimus' Death, Missile Silo, Nevada, Optimus becomes your glorified babysitter, Post-EXODUS, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Post-War, Pre-Canon, Pre-Exodus, Pre-Relationship, Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Ratchet doesn't take care of himself, Ratchet's grieving very hard, Ratcho's worried about Op, Reader comes to his rescue, Reader was born Cybertronian, Reader-Insert, Romantic Fluff, Sparkbonding, Sparklings, Sparks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Transformer Sparklings, Transformers Spark Bonds, War-Typical Violence, as per usual, bc Megatron laid out mines in battlefields where field medics would try to get to the injured, but what's new, but you're a physician in your own right, comfort cuddling, dfab!reader, fem!reader - Freeform, fluff and comfort, i don’t think there’s much left to add tbh, illness recovery, it'll get better next update tho, it's sad, just not quite as experienced, mentions of gore, post-war Cybertron, rebuilding cybertron, sliiiight AU if you squint?, sorry - Freeform, sorta?, the Autobots lost most of their medics that way, the fluff’s here, you work with Ratchet in a triage facility, you're a cold-constructed medic, you're basically Ratchet's assistant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASimpleArchivist/pseuds/ASimpleArchivist
Summary: ...and the one time you didn't.(Alternative summary: you're another Autobot medic and you always end up being the one to get Ratchet to heckin' rest.)





	1. Cybertron, Pre-Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been itching to write something for TFP Ratchet but for some reason every idea I’ve come up with didn’t feel good enough, so when this came along I had to settle for it. I want to give him the love he deserves because you see so few fics for him, and I hope I did him justice in this.  
> I normally don't like to write a Cybertronian reader because I feel like it's more believable, realistic, and relatable when the reader's human, not to mention that it's easier for me to write for some reason, but I was struck with inspiration for the first scene and I wanted to explore it. I guess I might as well practice now, given I'll be writing something along these lines in the future. Please enjoy the angst!  
> (I took a lot of Ratchet's backstory from IDW's More Than Meets the Eye continuity, just for reference. I think it's intriguing and I haven't got much on TFP Ratchet's background so I added a couple of things of my own, too.) Also, you're already in a pre-established friendship with Ratchet with some unspoken and unaddressed tension/attraction.

Ratchet was at it again.

You ex-vented heavily as you stole your way silently through the darkened halls of the medical base towards the ER, entirely fed up and ready to use your bare servos if compliance wasn’t acquiescently given.

Eighty-nine mechs. Eighty-nine mechs has been brought into the ward that solar cycle. Too many. Far, _far_ too many. You’d lost three, nearly lost five. Seven had been gone before they’d even hit the table.

Ten more Autobots lost. Ten more Cybertronians taken by the ravenous bloodlust Megatron’s drive for peace and equality had twisted into.

You paused in the open doorway, peering around the edge just enough to get a good enough view of the over-occupied ward. Mechs unconscious and barely stable lined the walls, frames dented and bashed and scratched and scorched, energon and smoke staining their paint jobs. Shiny, silvery protoform peeked out from between the cracks in their armor, exposed and vulnerable. Some were missing extremities, others missing whole chunks of armor and kibble.

You could count on one servo how many had been brought in that you’d been able to get stabilized without Ratchet’s help.

The lights were dimmed so as to not bother some of the wounded’s exposed optics, only the pale green light from their vital screens glowing softly in the dark. Ragged, painful, laborious venting filled what little quiet was left under the sound of automatic energon pumps and spark monitors bleeping away. Still, you quickly spotted the red and white mech slouched over the wash station in the center of the far wall, movements entirely too sluggish to be of comfort to you.

You pulled in your field tight against your plating and began to make your way through the aisles of wounded Autobots.

The medic must’ve been worse off than you’d thought, if how he jerked in surprise when you touched his pauldron gently was any indication. He turned his helm just enough to recognize that it was you out of the corner of his optic before turning his attention back to his own servos. He wasn’t actively trying to wash them, just holding them under the lazy stream of water and watching as the dried, faded energon trickled down the drain.

_Not good._

In addition to his energon-stained servos, the rest of his frame was in varying states. All the plating below his waist was clean, save for his pedes where energon had dripped down and splashed on them and the floor - but his chassis was a picture straight out of a horror feature. Energon, crusty and flaking in places, glistening in others, completely covered the once polished white and red metal. Splatters of it speckled his helm and faceplate and chevron, chin looking as though it had been dripping with it not too long ago. You inwardly cringed at the sight, knowing that a good portion of energon had probably dried in the cracks and crevices and seams of his plating as well. You wondered how he, a normally clean-mannered mech, could even stand it. You wondered if he'd even noticed it.

“You need to recharge,” you murmured bluntly, not looking to beat around the bush. Ratchet didn’t appreciate sugar-coated words, especially when he was tired and short of patience.

“Don’t we all?” he responded blandly, expression not changing as he flexed his servos and shook them free of the mixed fluids and disengaged the water. He reached for the last clean scrap of fabric left on the shelf, haphazardly swiping most of the liquid from his digits and dropping it into the reclamation bin below the station.

Your optical ridges furrowed and you grasped his arm with a firm enough grip to reclaim his attention. His optics found yours after a long moment, dim, glassy, and dull.

“You’re about to collapse,” you told him, confirming the brief scan you’d conducted upon him a moment prior. You knew he was fully aware of it, fully aware of his own condition, but he obviously hadn’t taken any concern in the worrying readout. “You need to refuel and get out of here, get some fresh air. Clear your helm. Being around death for so long can kill you.”

He ex-vented softly, armor flattening against his frame. His helm dipped and you worried that he would collapse then and there. He surprised you by reaching up and curling his digits around the same arm you’d secured him with. “Too many criticals. Too few medics on alert.”

“We’re all on-call,” you reminded him. “First Aid’ll get here in a few kliks, all I have to do is ping him. You need to rest, Ratchet.”

“I will when they stabilize,” he rebutted, inclining his helm towards the most dangerously injured mechs clustered in the corner. A couple of them needed their energon refuel lines refilled.

“Too late,” you said mildly, sending a ping to the mech in question. He sent a brief confirmation. “Aid’s on his way.”

Ratchet shot you a look that was in danger of becoming irritated, but you cut him off before he could start to offer any real resistance.

“Look,” you said firmly, squeezing his arm tighter, “there are only two ways this is going to turn out: one, you cooperate and I don’t have to use force; or two, I haul out a stasis sedative and knock your aft nine ways into the Pit while sticking an energon drip up your exhaust pipe.” You leveled him with an unyielding, unwavering gaze, sinking your heel struts into the ground (so to speak). You let your field go, reaching out just far enough to brush the edge of his and let him feel the fierce determination simmering just beneath your armor. “Your choice.”

Ratchet matched your stare for a long moment, and for a brief klik you feared that you would actually have to go through with your threat when he suddenly seemed to sink into himself. He ex-vented heavily, wearily, his field suddenly rushing over you in a wave of exhaustion and numbness.

“Fine,” he said softly, and you simultaneously marveled and agonized at the sight of the Tyrant of Medibay give in without putting up so much as a fight - or struggling for a compromise that would lean towards his will more than yours. “Fine.”

Your expression softened and you tugged on his arm gently. “Let’s go, before someone decides to flatline and keep you here.”

Ratchet ex-vented but didn’t offer a response, following along without resistance. Soon the ward was left behind and you were making your way to your quarters. You knew Ratchet would recharge better if he wasn’t in his own room - and yours was the next best thing. At least you had a berth bigger than most.

If the chief medic noticed the change in course - when you’d turned left at an intersection, you’d been going the exact opposite way of his quarters - he made no comment. You wondered if he was even aware of where you were taking him. His frame was tired, that much was obvious - but was his mind as absent? The halls were empty, save for the occasional medical drone that floated by, and when you told him to wait by the door to the messhall so you could grab a couple of cubes he did so without protest. And, as every moment stretched on that he was silent and didn't fight your every effort in getting him to your habsuite to rest, your worry continued to grow and coil low in your primary tank.

Finally, you reached your quarters. You typed in the access code and gestured him inside. He trudged into the dark, and you followed, the door shutting and locking behind you. The soft blue glow from the cubes was the only light in your quarters, but it was enough for you and he to settle on opposing chairs at a nigh microscopic desk. Your habsuite was cramped, but at least your berth and washrack were larger than the other occupants of the medical base, given the bulkiness of your medic frame-type.

"Here," you said, pushing one of the cubes into his servos. You left the other one on the table near him, standing. "I'll get the water warmed up."

He murmured something unintelligible in response, optics dimmed as you turned around the corner into the second room of your barracks. You flicked on the light after fumbling for the switch, then cranked on the stream of water. The nozzle sputtered to life, and you held your servo beneath it until it reached the temperature you knew was best for washing away the tension in a mech's cabling and protoform. Ratchet liked scalding hot water because his armor was thicker and sturdier than most medics you'd come across - but, then again, he was a medic from before the war, forged and not cold constructed. You, on the other hand...field medics had begun to come up short because of Decepticon tactics targeting them specifically to weaken the Autobots, so cold construction of both warriors and medics had become necessary; before Megatron had targeted the construction plants, of course. You'd been one of the first medics to come out of that endeavor, and you'd managed to survive thus far purely by staying within Autobot borders - you weren't as sturdy and nigh indestructible a frame like the older medics were, but you did have the build of one. Compared to Ratchet, however...he'd been enduring the war far, far longer than you had, and the effects were plain - both upon his body and his psyche.

He'd been under so much pressure of late. More wounded were coming in than fully recovered and battle-fit were going out, and with every passing day the number of dead kept increasing. Megatron had been really pushing the borders lately, seeking out weak points that he could break through and take over. Optimus Prime kept trying to push back, kept trying to keep the lines up, but more and more Autobots were falling and less were coming back. And, given that the Iacon triage facility was the biggest, the best staffed, and the best supplied, combined with the fact that smaller medical outposts were either full or under constant danger of attack, the most critically wounded were sent to your colleagues in hopes of receiving the care they needed to live to fight another day.

Thus, more and more pressure was falling onto Ratchet's shoulders with every passing cycle. And, given that he had no concept of self-care (and with him being the most stubborn mech you'd ever met), the constant bombardment of critical-conditioned Autobots and ever-lengthening shifts were beginning to wear on him. He refused to take breaks when there were still patients to be seen, and he'd been living off of nutrient packs and five hours of recharge the past three solar cycles. Such determination and perseverance were highly appraisable traits in a medic during peacetime, but in a field medic in the middle of a civil war who himself was on the verge of constant collapse because of his own iron will, they were almost death sentences. You were terrified that he would break before he would bend, and you knew you needed to intervene before that happened.

Even if it meant using force in whatever ways necessary.

You hissed and drew your servo out from beneath the water when the heat became too much, stepping out of the washrack and peering around the corner for the chief medic. He'd folded his arms upon the tabletop, his helm resting atop the stained plating, one cube drained and half of the other gone. He was frighteningly still and for a moment you feared he'd dropped into recharge, but when you shuffled into the room completely he lifted his helm. The air rushed out of your vents in grief - you'd never seen him so tired. So...broken.

"Come on," you murmured. "Let's get you cleaned up. You'll feel much better after, I promise."

He ex-vented deeply, rising onto his pedes slowly and shuffling towards you. You guided him into the washrack, watching his armor flare as the water washed over him, allowing the heat and liquid to get into every crack and crevice he couldn't normally reach. He shuddered and tilted his helm back, letting the stream run over his faceplate and drip from his helm. You almost felt ashamed for being present in such an intimate manner, but by this point of knowing the older medic you'd both seen and interacted at personal and vulnerable moments, so you stifled the flustered feeling bubbling in your spark with neutral professionalism and grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet. You began to scrub the residue of fluids from the medic's chassis and arms, being careful not to scratch his paint in the process. He ex-vented quietly at the feeling, leaning into your touch and reaching for the bottle of soap on the rack within the stall. He shifted further into the stall, opening his optics and giving you a brief once-over. "Get in here. You're not much better than I am."

You glanced down at your own frame before feeling your faceplate warm. You, too, were absolutely filthy, and a true sight to behold. You...you hadn't even realized...

He tugged on your servo and you stumbled into the stall, suppressing the automatic activation command for your cooling fans. You gasped as the water hit you, hot and shocking but not unpleasant. Ratchet managed to reach around you for another cloth, returning your previous attentions dutifully. The sensation was soothing, reassuring in a way you couldn't quite place. He drizzled the soap into both of your weapons of choice before you both resumed your task. At some point, you both had to detach the showerhead in order to direct the stream into the hard-to-reach places, making sure to get all the energon washed from your frames, despite knowing that you were probably going to end up in the same condition the following day. _One could hope._

After you felt clean and were sure that Ratchet was, you disengaged the water and took turns helping towel the other off. You took care not to be rough with his chevron and finials, trying to ignore the warmth building beneath your plating when his engine rumbled in soft content. He, in turn, was gentle with your more sensitive plating and seams - you wondered how he'd known of all the sensor-rich places in your frame, but didn't question it too deeply. You could feel weariness begin to tug on the back of your processor and you wanted nothing more than to rest and forget that this had possibly been the worst day you'd seen. You pointedly ignored the fact that Ratchet had probably seen worse.

After turning off the light, you guided the chief medic to your berth, letting him settle before climbing up onto it yourself. You laid on your side facing away from him, knowing his tendency to prefer privacy, but when you felt his digit-tips brush against your arm you laid on your spinal strut instead. Out of the corner of your optic you could see his glowing softly through the dark, facing you.

"...I'm sorry," he whispered, so softly you almost didn't hear. The sincerity in his tone caught you off-guard - you'd never heard him so open before.

"For what?" you managed, turning onto your side to face him. Your chassis almost touched his, and you were only reminded of how close you were to him when you realized you could hear his engine rumbling quietly against the near silence of your quarters, overlaying yours easily.

"For _all_ of this," he murmured, gesturing vaguely towards the ceiling with a servo. "You didn't deserve to be brought into a war. You didn't deserve to see all this bloodshed, all this death." He let out a deep, heavy, shaky ex-vent that rattled his plating. "You certainly didn't deserve to be living helm-deep in it every day."

At first, you didn't know what to say. He'd never opened up like this before - sure, you'd shared some brief moments in passing that gave you a little insight to his true character, but for the most part you'd only ever known the steel-faced field medic who had the best servos in the business and didn't hesitate to give fearsome soldiers thrice his size orders while trying to keep them from joining the Allspark. Now you were getting to see the old clinic physician that had made a reputation for himself in Iacon for being the best doctor on this side of Cybertron, renowned both for his proficiency, cool-mannered professionalism, and deeply caring manner. (Usually the latter was only known by those who were closest to him, given he tended to put off an extraordinarily grouchy demeanor - you'd only heard it from fellow medics in the medical base, and only in the context of whenever Optimus Prime would visit to get a report and see how his recovering Autobots were fairing to boost morale. They were remarkably close, supposedly - from what you understood, they'd known each other long before the war had started, back when Optimus Prime had been a lowly archivist by the name Orion Pax. It was difficult to picture the massive, stoic mech as anything other than the inspirational leader of the faction that continued to defy Megatron's greater power, greater resources, greater weaponry. He made you feel so very small and insignificant in comparison.)

"I'm just glad that I can help save lives," you said finally, realizing that you had taken just a few kliks too long to respond. You saw his shoulders sink despite the lack of light. You gave him a wry grin, trying to lighten his obviously somber mood, reaching out with your field filled with warmth and reassurance. "Besides. Someone's got to keep you from running yourself into the ground. Everyone else is terrified of you."

His expression darkened and his optics shuttered closed, letting out the heaviest, shakiest ex-vent you'd ever heard from him. "I don't understand."

You blinked. "You don't understand what?"

"How you do that."

"How I do what?"

" _That_ ," he emphasized, gesturing towards you with an open servo. His digits brushed your chassis. "You...it's..." He let out a sound that was simultaneously frustrated and confused. "You always...you dismiss things like this so easily." His optics found yours, shockingly imploring. "Don't you wonder what it would've been like if you hadn't been born into all this?"

You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. "Well, sure, but...I don't like the war any more than you do, but honestly I don't have anything to compare it to. This is all that I've known. I know you and some of the others talk about what it was like before, but I can't relate to that. All I can do is imagine it."

The look on his faceplate could only be described as grieved. He studied you for a long moment, silent, then reached into his subspace and drew out a datapad. You blinked in surprise as he thumbed it on and handed it to you.

"This was my clinic," he said, voice neutral and unreadable. "Before the war."

You took it, bemused, then looked at the picture glowing softly against the light of both of your optics. The building was small compared to the others around it, but remarkably newer less run-down. The street was potholed and in terrible condition, trash littered all around with little abandon. You pursed your lip plating and hesitantly looked back up to him.

"The Dead End in Iacon," he explained without prompt, optics pensive. "I worked in Iacon's hospital but I knew how bad the living conditions in the Dead End were, so I saved up enough to purchase a plot and have a clinic built. I worked alone - no one else would dare even go close to the place - and I could only go whenever I was through with work at the hospital. But despite the nature of my patients and the disparity of pay I received, the thanks I got were rewarding enough. They had little to nothing left except their own frames, and I didn't see the need in allowing them to die of such negligible causes." He paused, gaze suddenly far away. "I met many good mechs, working there. I encountered...tense situations at times, of course, but given that I was the only higher-caste mech in Iacon giving them any attention I was under their constant surveillance and protection. And they paid me in whatever they had - energon, medical supplies that they managed to find, and the younger ones would leave little knick-knacks on the doorstep. I'm almost certain there was a gang there, but in no way were they radicals like the cityfolk made them out to be. They took care of each other. They provided for one another. In a way, they were more honorable than the higher-castes." He ex-vented softly. "But that wasn't very hard to accomplish, back in those days."

"...Why did you do it to begin with?" you inquired, awed almost beyond words.

"One day, I saw the ward manager in the Iacon hospital refuse to see a dying mech merely because it was obvious he was from the Dead End. His friend was not in much better a condition, and they were both nearly unconscious from energon loss. But those self-righteous pricks just kept refusing to let them in the door. They turned them away in broad daylight." Ratchet's expression darkened. "I tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn't hear it. So I got my supplies and caught up with them. I managed to save both their lives, but I nearly lost the first. Twice. His name was Spoiler. The other was Tailpipe. They had distrusted me at first, accusing me of the same folly as my coworkers, but when I convinced them that I was trying to help their entire demeanor changed. They couldn't stop thanking me - wouldn't stop, actually, because I told them multiple times it was unnecessary. But I realized something that day - Primus created me to be a healer, but what good would that ability be if I didn't heal all those who needed it?"

"That's...that's incredible," you murmured. "And honorable."

Ratchet dipped his helm. "It was necessary. And I swore that if I could provide health for those in need of it, I'd do my damndest to provide it. And, while I did that, I hoped that it would change." His optics dimmed and anger tugged his optical ridges down, the corners of his mouth tensing. "This isn't what I had in mind."

You watched the emotions play over his face, hesitant, before touching his servo tentatively. "Things will change," you assured him. "Everything will turn out okay in the end, I promise. And maybe you'll be able to reopen your clinic." You smiled softly, genuinely. "And I'd be willing to help you in any way that I can."

Ratchet met your optics for a long moment, the anger receding from his field before the closest you'd seen to a smile on his faceplate made his optics glow. "I'd...I'd like that. You'd be an excellent assistant." He ex-vented quietly. "Let's just hope Megatron'll run out of minions before he destroys the whole fragging planet."

You tried to smother your chuckle but failed in the long run, which made the corner of his mouth quirk upward. He patted your servo and rolled over, making himself more comfortable on your berth. "Sleep well. You're going to need it."

"You, too," you responded, smiling and likewise turning your back to him. You were contented to sense the easiness in his field, and you heard his ex-vents lengthen out before you slipped off into recharge.


	2. Earth, Post-Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet confessed to you some time after Cybertron's destruction, grieving over the loss of his home and terrified that he'd lose the other thing he cared most about - you. He knew time might be short for either of you, given you were still at war, and wanted to ensure that he'd get to spend as much time with you as possible. 'It's better to have love and lost, then never to have lost at all', so they say. That type thing.  
> This takes place during the episode 'Sick Mind', where Optimus is infected with the cybonic plague. This is after they get the antidote from Megatron but before Optimus is fully recovered.

"Come on, Ratchet. You should get some rest."

"I'm fine."

You hesitated, servo hanging in the air just over the elder medic's pauldron. He was hunched over, seated upon an empty supply crate next to the medical berth currently occupied by the biggest mech amongst your ranks. Optimus was recharging, exhausted after Ratchet had administered the antidote Bumblebee had acquired from Megatron's comatose processor. The poor Prime had been fighting for his life, and thus scarcely had the energy to recover from the tempting draw of the Allspark. You were all blessed that he'd survived, and was making such good process in the wake of his recovery.

"You're the worst liar I've ever met, and you know as well as I do that I've dealt with some wayward characters in my day," you retorted, though there was no harshness in your words.

The medic before you remained silent. You ex-vented softly.

So much time had passed since you'd first been constructed - sometimes it felt so surreal. You'd grown since those early days, and so had your experience. You'd seen the war swell to the point of the utter destruction of your home planet. You'd seen deaths uncountable, many by your own hand in defense of others incapable of defending themselves. Mostly your patients, others innocent bystanders. You'd had to leave Cybertron, fleeing from Megatron's bloodthirst for Optimus into the cold, infinite reaches of space. You'd lost much of your hope, that day, but some good had come out of it, at least.

Grief-stricken, mourning, and more than a little afraid of what the uncertain future held, Ratchet had revealed that you were more important to him than either of you had suspected. He'd never felt a connection with anyone like he had with you, and he was terrified of the thought of losing you in the constant tumultuous chaos of the war. You'd vowed to each other, then, to stick together through thick and thin, no matter what. It was just plain luck that you had managed to end up with Optimus.

Earth was...strikingly different from Cybertron, but even the Cybertron you had known was different from the one Ratchet had been forged and lived on. While it had taken quite a while to get accustomed to some of the baser differences (its gravity was greater, and the varying climates across its surface were astounding - not to mention the fact that its precipitation held no greater threat to a Cybertronian other than getting one wet), you'd grown fond of its lush greenery and vibrant colors. The air was clear, clean from the pollution of war machines, the sky was beautifully blue, and you never knew what you were going to encounter around the next corner.

Humans, like their home planet, were a vastly differing and quite interesting species. You had never felt as though you were large, having always been smaller than the other medics and soldiers on Cybertron despite your sturdy frame, but upon having seen a human for the first time you'd been struck with the realization that you were, essentially, a titan upon this little green planet. You'd taken time to browse their worldwide information network whenever you had the chance (and whenever Ratchet wasn't looking), finding that they weren't very different from Cybertronians at all - they felt strong emotions and possessed intelligence remarkable for their processors' (brains') size. They were loyal and loved and laughed and lost just like Cybertronians did, and you had always been curious about interacting with them, but Optimus' prime directive to avoid any and all contact with civilians for fear of getting them involved in the Autobots' and Decepticons' conflict choked that desire for the most part. (You had tried to talk to Agent Fowler on more than one occasion, but he wasn't exactly the...friendliest person you'd ever met, but he wasn't unkind. If you had a question about their culture or a colloquialism, he'd try to explain it to the best of his ability - which, to say, wasn't very much. It was obvious that wasn't his forte.)

But for all the good Earth had offered - energon was bountiful, if one looked hard enough, and it offered a good hiding place from Megatron's forces - there had also been bad. Your original team of five (Optimus, Ratchet, yourself, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead) had grown to seven when a reconnaissance agent and her partner had spacebridged to Earth, resulting in the Decepticons finding you as well. Trouble resulted, and brought conflict with it. For a while, you had wondered if there was truly a point to the war anymore. Megatron was obviously deranged, and it always seemed that Optimus hesitated a moment too long whenever he had the upper hand. But Optimus had pointed out, after a particularly rough battle while you and Ratchet had flitted among the Autobots injured, that it was now your collective duty to protect Earth and its inhabitants. They were now involved, directly or not, and Megatron wouldn't hesitate to harm them for the sake of drawing Optimus out.

The others hadn't been very sure about that - not all of them were very fond of Earth and its people (yet, in some cases), but they'd accepted the responsibility nonetheless. It was the only home you had left, and you all agreed to protect it for the sake of allowing humanity to grow without hindrance to its full potential.

Ratchet had never seemed to warm up to the concept, however. He had changed, after Cybertron had fell. He'd lost any hope of the war ending, and he'd grown bitter and jaded. He'd lost much of his compassion for those indirectly involved in the war, and always seemed to be working. To the others, he was nearly unbearable in his caustic remarks and dismissive manner, but you knew better. You'd watched the change happen, but you also knew what lay underneath the hardened shell he used to protect himself.

He was terrified. He worried constantly, to the point that he rarely let himself rest else his mind would get away from him. Pouring himself into his work, no matter what it was gave him the chance to distract himself and ignore the real world, if not just for a little while. He had seen so much during the war, too, and you worried for his mind - he'd been torn from recharge more than once from night terrors and memories of battlefields engulfed in flames and spilled energon. He'd been a field medic before he'd been stationed in Iacon's hospital, after all, so he'd been through much more than you had.

You'd noticed he was starting to cut down on his energon intake, as well, which did not bode well. But you knew why. Ratchet was a dedicated mech, down to the very core of his spark - loyal and caring and concerned and willing to put others before himself every time a situation arose. If starving himself meant that the other Autobots would have that much more energon, or that he'd had enough for a transfusion that could save one of their lives, then you knew he would do it until he was near system failure.

He was dedicated, yes. Stubborn, even more so. Were he in any other situation, it would be a good quality - but in a war, it posed severe danger to his health and wellbeing.

But for now, you would let him be. You would keep an eye on his vitals and, when his energon levels grew too low, you would coax him to rest and reenergize, just like you always had, ever since your early days in the Iacon hospital. You'd accepted your role as his check and balance system a long, long time ago. You kept him grounded, and stable, and functional. He may never have realized it - perhaps he never would - but you knowing it (with the numerous instances of thanks Optimus had given you throughout the years) were more than enough. Optimus wasn't always able to make sure his old friend was all right, and he was grateful Ratchet had you to care for him. Between the both of you, you managed to keep Ratchet afloat.

But it was times like this that threatened to drag Ratchet under.

Optimus' health had degraded frighteningly quickly, and for a while you and Ratchet both had feared he wouldn't pull through. Ratchet had not taken a even a single klik to rest, lingering by the Prime's side constantly to monitor his vitals. You'd barely managed to get him to refuel, even with a warmed, frothy cube. Ratchet had been terrified - while you weren't sparkbound, you didn't need to be to feel it choking him. You'd known him for so long that reading his body language was second nature to you, almost as clear as words. The tightness of his armor against his protoform, combined with the tenseness in his shoulders and the fact he kept his EM field clamped tightly against his frame were all big indicators he was intensely afraid for the Prime's life.

Now that Optimus had come through the worst of it, however, he'd relaxed a little. Now all that was left was for you to convince him to rest.

You stepped around the crate and sat next to him, close enough that your plating brushed, a nonverbal offer of comfort, but far enough away to give him space should he refuse.

Ratchet's servos twitched from where they were clasped tightly upon his legs, then loosed as he turned one over. You took it wordlessly, lacing your comparatively tiny digits between his and squeezing gently. He squeezed back.

"How's he doing?" you asked softly.

Ratchet ex-vented, equally as quiet. "Better. The antidote is doing most of the work, but he'll need fresh energon and a lot of recharge to recover completely."

You nodded, his comforting tone relieving what concern you had left. He only ever used that tone when you were alone - gentle, warm, reassuring. If the others ever heard it, they'd have a completely different perception of him. "So I would just need to keep an optic on him?" You glanced towards the energon drip Ratchet had set up. "That'll probably need to be replaced in a couple of cycles."

The orange and white mech turned a wary optic to you, mouth pursed. "What makes you think I'm leaving?"

"This," you said bluntly, flicking your wrist and popping open the scanner screen imbedded in your forearm. Ratchet looked, his expression sobering when he saw his own energy readout.

"...I'll be fine," he responded finally, turning his gaze back to the unconscious Prime before you. You heard the red and blue mech's engine rumbling lowly, a comforting ambiance in tandem with the medic's next to you.

You ex-vented, casting your optics towards the ceiling far above your helm. If you could just get him out of his somber air... "You've already used that line." You jabbed him in the side gently. "If you don't cooperate, Doctor, I might have to use force," you teased playfully. "I come equipped with sedatives, remember?"

Ratchet harrumphed, though you didn't miss the subtlest curve of a smile at the edge of his mouth. "I'd like to see you try."

You grinned with inward triumph, feeling his EM field brush against yours, warm and inviting and more relaxed. You reached out to him, feeling the tension drain from your frame as he enveloped you and you embraced his advances. You leaned into his side, resting your helm against his chin and letting your optics shut in contentment. Moments like these were rare, nowadays. Ratchet wasn't the most affectionate mech by far, but he allowed himself moments of vulnerability every so often. It was usually when he was tired.

You felt him unravel his digits from yours before grasping your servo gently, using his free servo to trace the crevices between the plating and touch the cabling underneath it. You shivered at his deft touches, knowing that his actions were half subconscious - you didn't think he would ever admit it (if he even realized it), but you were certain that he found the difference of your frame to his endearing. You couldn't count the hours he'd spent studying your frame with his servos throughout the centuries - he knew each plate and transformation seem and cable as though it were his own. It had become relaxing for you, almost a sedative in and of itself - you felt safe with him, secure in his grasp. You trusted his touch, his words, his feelings. Many troubled nights had been made more bearable by him just holding you and banishing the aches and pains within your frame away with his nimble digits. And such a quiet moment of intimacy reminded you that, likewise, it was reciprocated.

"I love you."

You opened your optics again, tilting your head up to catch Ratchet's. They glowed brightly, illuminating the smooth metal of his faceplate and highlighting the tentativity in his expression. He frowned after a moment, his optical ridges creasing as he let out a puff of light frustration. "English. How do humans express themselves at all? It leaves too much open space."

You smiled, reaching up with your free servo and tracing the line of his jaw with your digits. "I think it's meaningful in its simplicity. See?" You leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I love you, too."

You felt the protomass beneath your lip plating warm, and you grinned when you heard his cooling fans kick on. "Of course you would romanticize it," he scoffed quietly. "But there are so many multiple meanings to even a simple statement. 'Love' can mean an intense liking towards something, and a platonic _or_ a romantic love..." He shook his helm. "Cybertronian leaves no room for misunderstanding or miscommunication. Half of their conflicts start from simple misinterpretations."

"English isn't the only language on Earth," you pointed out. "The Japanese have it ironed out a little better. Miko explained it to me."

"Perhaps," he huffed, but you felt all the tension finally leave his frame, allowing you to fit into the curve of his side like you had been carved from it.

"In a way, I think it makes it more meaningful," you proposed thoughtfully. "There are layers of meaning and feeling, and to wonder where you fall makes it a little more exciting."

"I think Jack would disagree with you," Ratchet groused. "That girl has had him drawn up in a knot since their 'homecoming dance'."

"He's young," you pointed out with a warm smile. "And he's still finding his way. He'll figure it out eventually."

Ratchet gave you a look, amusement glittering in his optics. "You make it sound as though you're old."

You grinned, then laid a melodramatic servo over your forehelm. "Oh, but I _am_ , Doctor. I feel myself withering away even as we speak. I'll turn gray at any moment."

Ratchet rolled his optics with a smile, a glorious and entirely too endearing sight. "If you're old and offlining, then what am I?"

"Already smelted and tossed to the wind," you quipped with a smirk. You laughed when he pinched a cable exposed in your wrist joint, yanking your servo from his and jabbing him in the side. "Though I can't say you don't have any spice left, old mech."

"Yeah?" he tested, tone haughty and playful. Your spark fluttered when he grasped your wrists firmly, leaning down until you could feel the air leaving his intake blooming over your faceplate. His optics were as blue as the Earth's sky, clear and deep and endless. "I think this old mech's still got a few tricks up his sleeve, little femme."

You kissed him then, feeling his smile relax as he nipped at your lower lip. You bonked your forehelm against his in retaliation, grinning when he huffed into your mouth and released one of your servos so he could cradle the back of your helm. He stroked where it met your neck cabling, reducing you to a molten puddle of protomass.

After a long moment, an interlude drew you away from each other and you took in his features, warmth permeating your entire frame.

"So handsome," you purred, cradling his jaw and reveling in the rumble your words drew from his engine.

He scoffed in an attempt to play it off, but you didn't miss how his optics flashed brighter. "An opinion we don't share."

"Oh, but I want our sparklings to look just like you," you responded with a grin.

Ratchet froze, every joint in his frame locking up as his vents stalled. You stilled when you realized you'd accidentally vocalized your thoughts.

"You're not...?" he managed finally, optics wide and dim with fright. His servo clutched at the crate beneath him as though the ground under his pedes threatened to give way.

Your spark fluttered with nervousness as you reached out to him soothingly. "No, no, of course not." You tried to give him a wry smile. "We haven't even sparkbonded, Ratchet."

That fact seemed to click in his processor because he relaxed instantly with a deep, heavy ex-vent. "No, I...I suppose we haven't." His shoulders sank and he tipped his helm back, rubbing at his optics. "I...how silly of me. My apologies."

"It's all right," you assured him, patting his arm gently. "The last thing we need right now is a sparkling." Your lips thinned and you ex-vented softly, despondently. "I...wish it weren't that way. This damned war...it's ruined everything. It feels like it's never going to end."

Ratchet regarded you with sympathy, settling his servo over yours and squeezing it. "Do you...do you want to?" He paused, then hastily amended, "Sparklings. Do you want sparklings?"

You laughed softly, though it wasn't mirthful as much as it was disheartened. "There's me and my big mouth, for you. I've...I've been meaning to ask you, but..." Air gushed from your vents and you turned from him, leaning forward and dropping your faceplate into your servos. "I do. _Primus_ , I do. I want to be bound to you, I want to reopen that clinic you had before the war, I want to have a quiet home just out of Iacon and...I'd have as many sparklings as you wanted. I just...I want to be happy. I want _you_ to be happy. More than anything." You blinked against the thin film of optical fluid blurring your visual feed, dropping your helm further in an attempt to hide from his gaze. "But we can't have any of that, so long as Megatron's bloodthirst isn't sated."

"We will."

You twitched when Ratchet's servo landed on your shoulder, turning you slowly back towards him. His field was warm, welcoming, and you hesitantly settled back into its embrace. He rested his forehelm against yours, gazing deeply into your optics. "And...the first step is sparkbonding."

Your optics rounded. "You...but you said-"

"I know what I said." Ratchet ex-vented, closing his optics briefly. They refocused on you after a moment, and he offered you a somber look. "But...as much as I'd like to ignore it, our days might be numbered. I want to have you, in every sense, for as long as I can. I said no the first time because I was afraid I would be selfish for agreeing, potentially subjecting you to bondloss if I were to be taken by the Allspark. I would perish all over again if I offlined knowing you'd experience that. However..." Warm air gushed from his vents and made you shiver as it brushed against your plating. "You deserve more than I could ever give you, but if I could offer you my spark, then...I feel it would at least repay a small amount of my debt to you." He stroked your jaw with the tips of his digits, love permeating his field so much you felt as though it was saturating your very being. "I would be honored to call you mine, if you would have me."

"I'm already yours," you whispered, and you only realized optical fluid was trickling down your cheek plating when Ratchet reached up and thumbed it away. "I've _always_ been yours."

He huffed out a laugh at that, though you didn't miss the flatterment in his field. "Primus, _that's_ a thought." He raised an optical ridge. "Even back in the hospital?"

You nodded, smiling lovingly. "I knew you'd taken my spark the moment I saw you help that femme and her sparkling. You were so gentle, and patient, and..." You shrugged, dropping your gaze sheepishly. "You're good with sparklings. That's..." You fiddled with your digits, your cooling fans kicking on with a low whir. "...that's kind of why I started thinking about having yours."

He clasped your servos and soothed their nervous twitches. "Was." Ratchet ex-vented softly. "I think I lost it, like I've lost just about everything else in this war."

"No, I don't think so. Just look how you interact with the kids," you told him. "Raf seems quite taken with you. And you haven't lost me, or Optimus. But..." You tilted your help minutely with a lopsided grin. "I can't say the same about your bedside manner."

He scoffed, though you felt the tinges of slight embarrassment. "I...I haven't treated any of them how I should."

"You can still fix that." You rested your forehelm against his again. "I know you're tired, and I know this is still all very scary, and the war isn't something to joke about, but..." You kissed him briefly, reveling in his field around you. "...there's still some good in the world. We have a home, and we have a family, as dysfunctional as they are, who looks out for us and protects us, and...you have me. I'll always be here for you, Ratchet, no matter what. I love you more than anything, and I would give everything I have if it meant you would be happy."

"I already am." The old medic smiled unbidden. "I'll do my damnedest to give you everything you want, but, for right now..." He pulled your helm in to kiss you lovingly. "...let's take baby steps."

"No sparklings," you reiterated, quirking an optical ridge and giving him an impish grin.

"No sparklings," he confirmed, standing and drawing you to your pedes with him. He tugged you into his chassis playfully, dipping his helm and nipping at your neck cabling. "For _now_."

You shivered and shoved at him with a smothered giggle, making a feeble attempt to pry yourself from his strong but careful grip. He retaliated by scooping you up and distracting you with a long kiss that made you forget why you were struggling to begin with. He began walking towards the corridor leading to the barracks, leaving the medical bay and the hangar and leaving it in silence.

In the quiet and the dark you both left behind, Optimus smiled.

It was about time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Optimus is the ultimate shipper and no one can convince me otherwise. Especially when it comes to Ratchet's love life.)


	3. Earth, Post-Predacons Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'll be honest: this made me tear up, and that doesn't happen often. It was kind of hard to write in regards to handling the interaction, but I assure you the emotion is there. I kind of vented all my pent-up feelings about Predacons Rising through Ratchet, with my mind's balancing logic in the reader's point of view. I can't imagine what Ratchet went through, nor how I could even begin to comfort him, so I tried my best. Hope you enjoy.  
>  (I promise the next chapter is much, much, m u c h better. Be strong and know that the fluff is coming.)

The entire military base was silent. The air was heavy, and even the human soldiers milling about outside performing their duties for the night were strikingly somber. You hadn't seen Agent Fowler, nor the kids, but something told you that it was for the best at that moment.

You closed the groundbridge behind you, letting out an apprehensive ex-vent as the familiar hum faded out and was choked by the quiet. You glanced around the hangar. It was completely dark and lifeless, the computer terminals dead and the lights out. You bit your glossa, clenching your servos nervously before heading towards the barracks. The corridor, too, was dark, most of the rooms empty now that the other Autobots had moved what few personal effects they had left to Cybertron. But the door near the end of the hall was open, a gaping maw that was simultaneously foreboding and ominous.

"Ratchet...?" you murmured, almost afraid to disturb the silence saturating the air. You slowly peered around the doorframe, your optics adjusting automatically to the lack of light.

"Go away."

You stilled, finally finding him by the direction of his voice. He was curled up on the berth, his spinal strut facing the doorway and you. His biolights were dangerously dim.

You recognized that tone. Hopeless, lifeless, empty. It was the same tone he'd had when Optimus had remained behind in the missile silo to disengage the groundbridge, and when everyone had thought...

_Oh, Primus...why did this have to happen?_

You were at a complete and utter loss. You'd been able to comfort him when dealing with the loss of patients or other medics, having been on common grounds as a fellow medic. You'd been able to mourn with him when another Autobot would be taken back to the Allspark, as a fellow soldier in such an involuntary war. But...you'd never had a friend like Optimus, who you'd known for as long as Ratchet had. The only Cybertronian you'd known for even a fraction as long had _been_ Ratchet.

Ratchet had often spoken of Optimus as the Cybertronian closest to his spark, before you'd entered his life. He'd met him in Optimus' earliest days, when he had still been an archivist and Ratchet had still been a normal physician, and they'd stuck together ever since. They'd known everything about each other, even so far as to say they knew each other better than they knew themselves. You couldn't fathom the centuries they'd had of camaraderie and fierce loyalty, persisting through it all - the caste tensions, the social chaos, the war...you'd heard much from Ratchet, and some from Optimus. They'd kept each other grounded, centered, hopeful. They'd kept each other sane, throughout it all.

And now Optimus was gone. For good. Leaving Ratchet (and the others) behind to pick up the pieces, without a choice.

Anger simmered low in your primary tank, but you were quick to dismiss it as an irrational and strictly instinctual response to Ratchet being hurt. You had grown very fond of Optimus in the time you'd spent with him on Earth. Even though it hadn't nearly been as long as you'd known Ratchet personally, or as long as Ratchet had known the Prime, you'd felt you'd shared a connected. He was kind and gentle and still had compassion within him despite the millennia of bloodshed he'd undergone. But he was also solely devoted to his people and, more namely, his family, and would stop at nothing to ensure that they would live to see another day, even at the greatest cost.

Including his own life.

They were both robbed of choice, though, you supposed. Yes, there could have been other ways to handle the situation, and Ratchet probably would've been able to figure out a way to extract the Allspark from Optimus' own. But...Optimus had been tired. It'd been clear in his optics, in his frame. He'd looked exhausted down to the spark. He hadn't entertained the thought of finding another way because he hadn't _wanted_ to. And that, to a certain extent, you could understand. He'd just wanted to give Cybertron a fresh start, and to give its future inhabitants freedom. He'd known what the neutral Cybertronians had thought of both him and Megatron - to them, there had been no difference in who was right and who was wrong. They'd only seen the death and destruction their conflict had caused. And the neutrals were the majority of Cybertronians who had survived when evacuating from the dying planet centuries before its death; Optimus had known they wouldn't submit to his authority (not that he would've wanted to be Cybertron's figurehead - you'd known him too well), so in his mind it was better to allow a complete rebuild of Cybertron take place without him (and Megatron, who was still at large). Optimus had clearly considered his days of leadership over, and had planted the seeds of new leaders in his stead, in all of his Autobots, even those still wandering the stars.

You knew Ratchet knew all of that, and probably more, but it still didn't make it hurt any less. You couldn't fathom what he was going through, but...you had a general idea from your sparkbond. His very spark was mourning. Even though he was keeping his EM field clamped around his frame, even though he was carefully shielding his thoughts from you, you could still feel echoes of it.

He was in so, so much pain.

You entered the room slowly, taking care to make your steps as light as possible. You settled against the side of the berth on the ground, letting your helm fall back against the edge of it and shuttering your optics. You tried reaching out with your field, but as soon as it brushed against his he drew his in even tighter. You retreated, discouraged.

"Can't even follow simple orders," you heard him growl. "Always irritated your superiors when you did that."

"You know me," you responded softly, not taking the bait. You knew what he was trying to do and you weren't going to play along. Not now. "Any orders that're stupid can be disregarded as such."

His engine rumbled in agitation, and you heard him shift. Probably further away from you. "Can't you just let well enough alone, just for once in your fragging life?"

"You know the answer to that," you told him evenly. He fell silent.

You tried to gauge his tone, tried to figure out exactly what he was feeling. If it was anything close to the tumult you were dealing with yourself, though, there couldn't be any one name for it. The closest you could think of was 'grief in denial', but you were no linguist.

"The others managed to salvage all they could from the _Nemesis_ , and they've got a rudimentary comms station up and running at headquarters, but they'll need some help setting up everything else. Including the medical systems," you said, rubbing your digit tips against your chassis, where the transformation seems met to protect your sparkcasing. You could feel him, and the secondary emotions were making your spark fluttery. "We managed to get enough for a full medical bay, but it's small. It wouldn't be that hard to set up more berths, though. We've got enough brain power to manage all the wiring."

Silence. You could almost sense him gritting his denta. You were struck by an idea, then. If he wasn't going to open up, then maybe...maybe you could trick him into it.

_Like sticking a live fuel cell in a forge. With probably just as much fire damage._

Oh, well. It was worth a shot.

"We've also got plans for an arrival center, with a landing dock," you continued, hyper-aware of even the slightest change in the mech behind you. "Bulkhead's handling the design, and Wheeljack's getting the materials. Arcee and 'Bee scouted out the area and marked it, and they said it's pretty even ground to work with. It should go up pretty quick, but getting everything set up inside'll be the difficult part. It's going to have enough living quarters for half the Autobot army, so they're'll be plenty of room for the neutrals when they start coming in. I'm hoping a couple more medics'll show up before then, though - we could certainly use the extra hands. Knockout's starting to warm up a lot, but I sense that he's still wary of all of us. He's got a good processor for medicine, I'll give him that, but I can't say he'll be easy to work with, since he's been used to following his own orders for so long."

There was a subtle shift in the medic's field, just the lightest twitch, but you were close enough that you felt it easily. You knew you were getting closer.

"Any more hands would be welcome, though," you digressed, dipping your helm in admission to your own point. "Maybe some construction workers. More Autobots'd be nice, too, maybe a scientist. Wheeljack can't do all the work himself, after all." You paused, considering. "Or maybe someone who can handle the influx of newcomers, organize all the goings-on. 'Bee already has his work cut out for him, and Smokescreen's still green at most things so he isn't much help yet. Magnus is stressed enough as it is, trying to keep everything together, he could certainly use some help. But...I'd be happy just to see some new faces, honestly. Maybe some old ones."

You continued to relay the news of what had happened in the mere three days since...the Unicron incident, and the further along you went the more tension you sensed in the yet silent mech behind you. It was like poking a live grenade with a stick, trying to see when it'd finally blow. You'd had to do the same, before - crack him open to let out all the pressure that had built up within him. He tended to bottle everything up so tight, sometimes _he_ couldn't even undo it. You hated doing this to him, but sometimes it was necessary. For him, for the both of you...

...For everyone.

But you were starting to run out of things to talk about, and Ratchet had yet to even make a sound. He was doing well to hold his tongue, to keep himself in check, and that made you worry about the state he was in. It was a sure sign that he was a lot worse off than you'd initially thought.

You finally finished sharing the news about the geological scans showing new energon growth, and how Wheeljack was starting to set up plans for a production and refinery center, and you were suddenly reminded that you had nothing else to say. You resigned yourself to the very last idea you had, and your spark shivered with apprehension because you knew it was going to get _some_ kind of reaction out of him.

_Here goes nothing._

"...You know, I thought about building a memorial, at the Well," you mused, quiet and tentative. "Something small, maybe. Just a marker. He wouldn't have wanted anything big and grandiose, I think. He probably wouldn't have wanted anything at all, but...he deserves that much. A reminder to those in the future about what sacrifices he made to give them a better life. Not that they'd appreciate it, but...we will. Always."

Then you heard it. The faintest ex-vent, quivering and soft and muffled. _Bingo._

"He'd be proud of us," you said, tilting your helm back up to gaze at the ceiling, as though you'd catch a glimpse of the Prime already gone (but never, ever forgotten). "At least _I_ think so. You, especially."

"And for _what?_ "

You stilled, your vents stalling.

Ratchet sat up behind you, but you didn't dare move for fear of stopping him. "We don't _know_ if he'd be proud of us because he _isn't here!_ " he bit out, and you heard metal creak dangerously. Probably his servos, clenched so tightly the cabling was near the point of snapping. "He isn't here and he's not _going_ to be and there's _nothing_ we can do to _change_ that!"

It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you, in all honesty. You remained silent, all the same.

" _And_ ," he continued, evidently not taking notice of your lack of a response, "there's little point in trying to help the neutrals, since they didn't help us! They had _no_ respect for the sacrifices he made, what he was trying to do for all us! _He broke the caste system!_ He changed all of our lives, gave-" He swallowed, his voice cracking as the anger began to seep out of his tone. "...He gave _everything_ so we could _all_ have a better future."

"But Optimus wouldn't care about that," you said gently, finally turning so you could look at your sparkmate. "He'd still try to offer them the same he would any of us."

Ratchet wasn't looking at you, instead focused on his open servos laying in his lap. He was distraught, torn - you could feel it plainly, now. His normally admirable control over his field had shattered with his outburst, and with it, his steely resolve.

His armor was cracked, and everything underneath was visible. Bare. Vulnerable.

You knew it was up to you to put him back together.

You stood slowly, climbing up onto the berth next to him. You left plenty of room between you, anticipating that he was still trying to find his way through the conflict, but he surprised you by squeezing his optics shut and reaching out to you with open servos and a twisted expression.

You moved until you were, for all intents and purposes, settled in his lap, facing him. He leaned against the wall, dropping his helm on the top of your chassis. You rested your chin on the crown of his helm, raising your servos so you could cradle his face between them. And as you stroked his cheeks with the gentlest, most soothing of touches, he began to weep.

Words fell from his mouth that obviously had meaning but were indistinguishable from each other, a ceaseless babble that sounded choked and were regularly interrupted by his vents sputtering and his vocalizer glitching. He shivered against you, his plating clamped down against his frame and his field churning like water in the wake of what he was feeling. Anguish, hurt, loss, guilt, shame, despair, hopelessness...it all crashed over you through him, and it resonated with your own feelings, amplifying them to night unbearable heights.

But you had to be strong. Just for right now. You had to be strong for him.

You pressed a kiss to his nasal bridge, stroking his helm and letting it all roll over you. You couldn't dwell on it, lest you lose your own resolve. Your engine rumbled in a soft purr, at the frequency you knew was the most soothing to him to hear (found through many long nights of sleeplessness). You felt the evidence of his sorrow trickle down your chassis, but you didn't mind it. You also didn't mind that he was pressing your frame against his just a tad too hard (you'd have to touch up the paint transfers later), or that he was clutching at you with trembling servos tight enough to dent the outer plating. It didn't hurt (that much), and you were sure he was in a lot more pain than you were in as of that moment.

Minutes passed, and finally he seemed to reach an impasse. He was obviously focusing on his ventilations, trying to keep them steady. You had started petting the length of his helm down his shoulder, and it seemed to be helping. (At least you _hoped_ it was helping.) Ratchet seemed to realize his digit tips had actually dug into your armored back plating and eased up, lowering them to rest on your waist. He audibly swallowed, likely an attempt to be rid of the probable lump in his intake. He reset his vocalizer and you waited expectantly.

"... _Why?_ " he whispered, so softly you almost didn't hear. " _Why_ did he do it? There could've been another way. We could've found one. _I_ could've found one. Why didn't he listen? Why did he...why did he give up so easily?" His voice shook dangerously, and he buried his faceplate further into your neck cabling, perhaps trying to hide his weakness from himself. "We've finally won. It's finally over, and now..." He cracked. "Now he's not here to see it."

He sounded vulnerable and plaintive and almost child-like in his plea for understanding. Your spark ached anew, and you ex-vented quietly.

"I don't know what to say," you murmured honestly, kissing his chevron and resting your forehelm against the top of his. "I never do, really. Never have. Doubt I ever will." You stroked his finial with your free servo, feeling him tremble against another sob. "But I think he knew it would take too long. It was the only way to restore power to Cybertron, not just the Allspark. If we were going to survive, it had to be done."

His servos tightened around your waist and his voice thickened. "It couldn't have been the only way. It _couldn't have_."

"Perhaps not." You closed your optics, trying to ignore the film of fluid building up and blurring your visual feed. "And I don't think I'll ever truly understand why he did it. But all we can do is be strong and rebuild. For him. We owe him that much."

You felt him nod minutely, but his field was still thoroughly disheartened - and beginning to tire. You could feel it through the bond and through his field, and you knew that he wouldn’t try to rest on his own.

You continued to touch him, trying to give him the best comfort you could. “Come on,” you murmured, stroking his face and kissing him gently. “Lay down with me.”

He mumbled a half-hearted protest, but made no move to stop you as you turned and guided him to lay on the berth so he faced the wall. You settled along his spinal strut, resting your forehelm against the back of his neck cabling and wrapped your arms as best you could around him, curling behind him and shielding him from the world outside. He pressed back into your embrace with gratitude in his field, which reached out to you. You responded with as much warmth and love and comfort as you could manage, and you felt him reach up and entwine his digits with yours, squeezing gently. You squeezed back.

You didn't fully know what he was going through, only what your own feelings were - you could feel parts of his, but it wasn't even close to the true wake of his emotions (of that you were certain). But you knew all you _could_ do was try. You couldn't replace Optimus - _no one_ could, no matter if and how hard they tried - and it would be a very, _very_ long time before time would begin to heal the wounds his loss had inflicted upon those he'd touched, but...as long as Ratchet needed you, as long as he grieved and needed strength and a reminder that Optimus would've wanted all of you to continue on without him, with a positive outlook and the best you could give, always...you would stay fast by his side and never waver. Even through the hard times and the heartache and the loss. Even through the difficulties and the trials and the conflict the future was sure to bring. Even if Ratchet tried to push you away, as he'd tried to do countless times before...you'd stay with him.

You owed him that much. You owed _Optimus_ that much. You loved him, and it would take Unicron himself to rip you from him when he needed you most - and even then, you'd put up a hell of a fight. Ratchet was your light, your world, your _everything_...and you'd be damned if you left him now.

The future of Cybertron awaited you, but, more importantly, your future with Ratchet awaited you. And despite the ache in your spark, despite the hurt you felt for your sparkmate, you would be lying if you said you weren't looking forward to whatever was around the bend.

After all, all bad things must come to an end in due time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers' Poll: If Ratchet and Reader had a sparkling, do you think they'd have a mech or a femme? (Please answer, I'd love to hear your opinions!)


	4. +1. Post-Optimus’ Revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff, as promised! Also there's a minor reference to RiD2015 if you squint? I know not everybody likes it, so I left Optimus' revival vague for that reason. Also I haven't seen the last season of it so I don't actually know how it ended, or where Ratchet or Optimus ended up, so I think I'll just settle for calling this a slight deviation of the Prime continuity.  
> (Enjoy the second-hand papa Optimus, as well. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°))

"No, no, no, you don't need that."

A protesting whine filled the air in response.

"Yes, yes, I know, it's shiny. But I don't want you hurting yourself. Again." A pause. "Your carrier would kill me, or in the very least kick me all the way across Cybertron. I'd rather endure neither."

You smiled softly, checking the temperature gauge leaning against the side of the cube.

_Perfect._

A gargled chirrup was the only reply your sparkmate received, and you heard him hum thoughtfully. "When you're a little older, maybe. But I don't think you'll want to be a doctor like me. It's messy."

"But we seem to come out of it unphased most of the time," you said, entering the main room with the carefully warmed energon cube clasped in your servos. "And that _is_ why they created washracks."

Ratchet looked up to you from his spot on the floor, as did the comparatively tiny Cybertronian in his grasp, and he used the distraction to quickly tuck the glassy, faintly glowing decorative piece Arcee had gifted the both of you a while back into his subspace. The corners of his optics and mouth were crinkled with an easy, warm contentment, his entire frame relaxed. His EM field welcomed you with open, figurative arms. He reached out and took the cube, adjusting his hold on the rather squirmy sparkling tucked into the crook of his arm before tapping the open corner against the little one's lip plating to capture his attention. Optics brightening with interest, his tiny servos grasped at the cube in an attempt to commandeer it from its wielder, but Ratchet's digits were substantially stronger and tilted it just enough that the warm fuel would begin to trickle into the sparkling's hungry intake. A light little purr began to fill the air from the sparkling's still developing engine, and you heard Ratchet's rumble throatily in an instinctual response.

"He does have the choice, though," you remarked softly, sinking down into the loveseat in front of your sparkmate. You watched the sparkling drink greedily, the steady flicker of his spark flickering through his thin protoform and the first hardening layer of plates growing across his chassis. "We managed to make that happen."

"Yes, we did," Ratchet supposed, seeming thoughtful. "Seemed like we never would."

You hummed in agreement. It still struck you with surreality, sometimes, to think that the war was actually over. Several annual cycles had passed since Optimus' sacrifice (five since his miraculous revival, of which you still didn't truly understand but were eternally thankful for), and since then New Iacon had grown to remarkable proportion in such retrospectively little time. Team Prime had moved on from their old lives as warriors and scouts and instead were leaders, builders, scientists, enforcers - most of them had returned to what their function had been before the war, but the younger mechs (the likes of Smokescreen and Bumblebee) had had the choice to go in whichever direction they had pleased.

It had been difficult for them to adjust, at first, which was understandable - it'd been thousands of years since they'd lead normal, civilian, non-deadly lives. But for you and the other cold-constructed Autobots, it...it had been slightly different. All you'd ever known was the war, the wariness and the perpetual sense of danger it had propagated for centuries of your lives. Ratchet, even with his struggles to acclimate back to peacetime conditions (he'd finally started to refuel regularly now that there was plenty of energon to go around, thank the Allspark), had been your greatest asset against the seemingly simple things that you should've been able to get easily. Taking in new patients, for example - anyone was allowed through the hospital doors, and they weren't asked for their faction right off the bat. They weren't asked at all, actually - just their name, frametype, and when they'd either been forged or cold-constructed. For a long time you'd caught yourself eyeing newcomers for any sign of malicious intent, or evidence that they were or had once been Decepticons. You'd been able to pick out a couple mechs who'd had tears in their plating where they'd obviously ripped off their Deceptibrands for the sake of anonymity. Ratchet'd had to talk you through your first-instinct response, work that focus away from identifying potential (and mostly unlikely) danger into instead figuring out ailments and malfunctions. It'd been hard and had taken a long time, yes - sometimes it'd seemed you would never get over your war-bred instincts - but you'd eventually adjusted.

Not much had changed in regards to yours and Ratchet's life, in all honesty - you still remained in the medicinal field, obviously enough, and once more physicians had arrived from the far reaches of space - both Autobot and neutral (for some reason Decepticon medics seemed to be as sparse as seekers were nowadays) - the obligations and the weight of responsibilities had slowly but surely fallen away from both your shoulders. Ratchet had appointed Knockout as the head physician for the New Iacon Hospital before you'd both left, to 'ensure that no one screwed up the job as badly', supposedly. You knew your sparkmate too well, though - he would never admit it, but you knew he'd grown rather fond of the red speedster in the years you'd both worked with him. While they had many striking differences - age and methodology being the two most obvious - they were both shameless smartafts and seemed to _thrive_ off of poking each other's buttons, trying to one-up the other in a never-ending competition of wits and brains and egos. (But as amusing as it tended to be most of the time, sometimes - being as you had been the only femme in the place for the longest time - it'd gotten to be a bit much.)

Another thing that was so different was the _noise_ on Cybertron now - and the lack thereof. No longer was there constant blaster fire and mortar shells threatening Iacon's fortified walls - instead, the near constant hum of altmode engines flying to and fro through the maze of streets and freeways of New Iacon, the crowds of Cybertronians walking and talking and laughing without a care to the world had filled the void of where certain death had used to reside, lurking in the polluted clouds' shadows and waiting to pounce upon the unfortunate. When New Iacon had grown to be a bit too big, a bit too crowded, and a bit too _much_ for you and your sparkmate, you'd decided to finally resolve at least one part of your post-war goals - long dreamt of, desired, now reality - and had moved to the outskirts of the great city. It wasn't too far out, nestled in the suburbs where the Dead End had used to stand, but your home was warm and cozy and afforded just enough space for the both of you.

The second point of your dreams had manifested in the fact that the old building had been two-storied. The lower floor had afforded you several rooms that had easily been remodeled into a small clinic much like the one Ratchet had opened long before the war, and he had been astounded by the arrival of Cybertronians he'd once known through having patched them up and sending them on their way, returning to pay homage to the kindness he'd given them without asking for anything in return. They'd offered their help in whatever way they could, and if they hadn't offered help by their servos they'd given donations of currency to help pay the bills or energon goods to ease the pressure of refueling. In some ways, it had reminded you both that there was still good in some Cybertronians, and that gratitude wasn't as farfetched a concept to most as you'd both believed previously.

When you'd both been expecting your first sparkling, the amount of well wishes and gifts that'd shown up on the desk in the lobby before you'd both descended the stairs for morning preparations had been staggering, flattering, and touching to the point of tears (mostly from you though, given your EM field had been out of sorts due to the newspark).

All in all, life was good. Near perfect, even. You weren't in want of anything more - peace was a wonderful thing, you supposed. Quiet and safety had been a very hard thing to come by, a mere decade ago - now you felt as though you had truly gained the things you'd wanted most - had prayed for, countless nights - since being constructed.

"...think he's here. Best finish getting ready."

You blinked, refocusing your optics and glancing out the window on the wall facing the street. Sure enough, the familiar bulky alt-mode of Cybertron's sole Prime (and, coincidentally, your babysitter for the evening) had pulled around the corner and reshaped into your friend's tall frame on the galvanized sidewalk.

"Right," you responded, standing and moving back into the kitchen. "Sorry."

If Ratchet had heard your meager responses, you didn't hear his. Instead, the low rasp of his voice as he gave Orion the typical sire run-down filled your audials as comforting white noise while you leaned up against the counter and pulled out the bottle of highgrade you'd been saving for special occasions such as these. You slipped it into your subspace and moved back into the sitting room to find Ratchet rolling himself to his pedes and setting the half-empty cube on the table. He'd caught the sparkling's optics, giving him a stern but gentle look.

"Now, I want you to be good, alright? Be good for Optimus. You can do that for me, right?"

An incoherent babble.

"Yes, I thought so. I'd better not hear that you gave him a hard time, else I might have to resort to drastic measures."

"Like what?" you teased, grinning. "Actually letting me handle him longer than ten kliks? You've just been trying to get him to say 'sire' first."

Sheepish but clearly not ashamed in the slightest, he tossed you a scrunched expression that you responded to with a brandished glossa. "At least I've been making the effort," he retorted.

You placed a servo over your spark, taking on an offended expression clearly mocked. " _I_ know that he'll start talking when he's ready," you shot back, stepping towards the both of them and stooping to press a chaste kiss to your sparkling's tender helm. "Right, baby? You'll talk to your _carrier_ whenever you want to. I _know_ you will."

Orion burbled happily, optics glittering with mirth inexplicable. Somehow the look reminded you of Ratchet, in the very few instances when he'd be in a playful, mischievous mood, that familiar gleam never having been absent.

Three steady, polite knocks sounded on the door before it cracked open and the helm of your sparkmate's oldest friend (and who seemed to be your sparkling's absolute favorite person, much to yours and Ratchet's collective chagrin) poked in through the gap with inquisitive optics. "I am aware that I am early, but the council meeting concluded sooner than anticipated. I hope that it isn't too much of an inconvenie-"

"Popimuh!"

You both froze. You saw Ratchet's optic twitch.

You started laughing.

"Of all the-" Ratchet began, looking so thoroughly offended that it only heightened the hysterics of the situation. He gave Optimus a glare that was in no way malicious - if anything, it was bewildered. " _Why?_ "

Optimus, looking entirely to awe-inspired and distracted to have heard Ratchet completely, simply ducked into the room and stared at his charge for the evening with hilariously wide optics. "...My apologies?"

You wheezed, trying to get a handle on your fit before you doubled over and your vents stuttered. "Oh, _Primus_." You swiped a digit under your optic to catch the fluid building there, giving Optimus a broad smile. "I'm genuinely not surprised. At all."

Ratchet, who had fallen into a decidedly sullen silence, began to grumble and half-heartedly handed your sparkling over to the Prime. "He's refueled, but he didn't take the whole cube so he might need to finish it later."

Optimus hummed and bundled up the sparkling in his massive servos, tucking him against his chassis and murmuring a low greeting under Orion's delighted squeal. Optimus' face broke out in a familiar smile, primarily triggered by sparklings of any sort. (He never really smiled at anything else, that you'd noticed. You found it hopelessly endearing.)

"We'll be back in a few cycles," you said, patting Optimus on the arm as you moved towards the door and hit the button to open it. "Ping us if something disastrous happens."

Optimus quirked an optical ridge, the corner of his mouth twisting upward slightly as Orion reached up with undulating digits to grasp at his crest. "This is not the first time I have watched him, nor will it be the last. We will be fine."

"Right, right, I know," you hurried as Ratchet stepped past you into the hallway and grasped your wrist with a gentle tug. "But still, if anything's _wrong_ -"

"We will be fine," Optimus repeated reassuringly, which helped to soothe the nervous flutter of maternal instinct in your spark to stay with your offspring.

"Okay, okay," you said, looking up to the sparkling staring down at you with wide optics. You blew him a quick kiss, to which he let out a giggle that sent warmth rushing straight down your spinal strut. "I love you, Orion. Be good! We'll be back in a little while!"

He trilled in reply, and you felt the faintest flutter of his still wishy-washy-at-best EM field against yours, filled with nothing but raw love.

"The sun's fading," Ratchet murmured to you, and you gave one last wave before the door slid shut. Spark aglow, you followed your sparkmate down the stairwell to the ground floor and out the front entrance, which he quickly locked as a precaution.

"Alright," he said, stepping out onto the sidewalk after you with a quirked optical ridge. "Where is this mysterious place you've been so enthused about?"

You gave him a quirky grin, winking and transforming on the street. "You'll see. Just follow me, old mech."

"You're not so spry yourself, anymore," Ratchet poked back as he, too, shifted into his altmode and followed you around the corner onto the main road.

"I can still keep up a little better than you can," you teased.

"Does that mean I can retire?"

"Ratchet, the day you voluntarily choose to retire is the day you've finally blown a circuit from yelling too hard."

You couldn't see him, much less his faceplate which was hidden within the reorganized mass of his altmode, but you could clearly sense that he rolled his optics with a scoff. It definitely wasn't denial.

* * *

"You shouldn't be mad at him, you know."

"I'm not mad at him. I _can't_ be mad at him, he's a _Prime_ , not to mention my oldest fr..."

"I meant Orion," you interrupted with a gentle laugh over your shared short-range comm frequency. "You can't really predict when a sparkling's first going to speak, _or_ what it's going to be. He could've talked to _Knockout_ first, for all we knew. Or _Wheeljack_. We should be thankful it was as someone as harmless as Optimus."

Ratchet's plating rattled softly in a full-bodied shudder. He was driving alongside you now, given that you'd left the city far behind miles ago. There were no roads out here, but the ground was even and didn't have many holes that'd hurt either of your suspensions. "Primus help, we'd never have heard the end of it."

You chuckled, finally spotting your destination on the horizon to your left, where the sun had melted into the unbroken metal landscape, rendering it a molten gold. You adjusted your trajectory accordingly, and Ratchet did the same. "Why do you think he likes him so much?"

"Who, Optimus?" Ratchet seemed to ponder for a moment, then ex-vented. "Probably because that mech is the most sparkling-friendly Cybertron I have ever met in my life. I've never seen a sparkling who never liked him immediately. It must be some sort of...radiation his field gives off. I'm sure of it."

You snorted again, trying to keep your front wheels from swerving. "Right, sure. It's not just because he's a complete gentle giant and hasn't a single bad thought in his body. They can sense things like that, you know. And hey, Optimus needed something to brighten up his day. He's been having it pretty hard with the Council lately."

"Just like they can smell fear," he responded dryly. "And...I suppose that's true. We have him all the time, after all."

You hummed in approval, and finally began to slow. To rolled into a transformation, trotting to a stop in the dusty metal earth. Ratchet followed suit, stopping a couple of paces behind you and ambling up behind you. You were quick to cover his optics with your servos before he could register your surroundings.

You felt him smile against your palms. "I can't exactly see your surprise if you're..."

"Shh, shh, shh," you interrupted, bouncing giddily on your pedes. "Offline your optics."

"I already can't see anythi-"

" _Please?_ "

"...Fine."

You waited until you couldn't see the warm blue glow from between the cracks of your digits before lowering your servos and stepping behind him. "Trust me."

"What do you meAAGH!"

"Calm down, I didn't push you _that_ hard."

He stumbled until he regained his footing, his arms shooting out warily. "What did you do _that_ for?!"

"Just wait a second." You placed your servos on his hip braces, guiding him forward inch by inch until he was in the exact place. You peeked under his arm, just to check, and beamed. The landscape was remarkably different, almost untouched by Cybertronian hands since the planet's revival, but the mountains in the distance were still the same, and the descent from where you stood to the glimmering silver valley below you was mostly like it had been, save for the lack of soot and energon stains and...well, anything else.

"Okay," you said, biting back the giggle building up in your vocalizer by pressing your digits against your lip plates. "You can look now."

You couldn't see his face, but when his arms lowered to his sides once more you knew he'd onlined his optics again. When his entire frame stilled, you knew he'd recognized it.

"Is this...?" he began softly, his voice tapering off into a gentle, inquisitive rumble of his engine.

You slid your arms around his middle, pressing the side of your aching, warm faceplate into his spinal strut. "Yeah," you managed around your smile.

Ratchet's servos fell on yours, his digits grasping them gently as he turned in your embrace. The reddening light from the sunset behind him illuminated the deep orange accents of his frame and turned the white into a pearlescent rose gold, casting long, dark shadows over his faceplate and chassis. The bright glow of his optics illuminated the plains of his faceplate, highlighting the expression of wonderment making him gape.

"I found a few maps through an old acquaintance," you explained with an extremely self-satisfied, confident grin. "Managed to figure out the general location, and I came here a couple of times to find out exactly where." You pointed to his pedes briefly. "You were right here and I..." You shifted, peeking around his pauldron. "...came from there."

Ratchet followed your gaze, finding the location of the docking bay in his memory. You'd come in by enforced ground shuttle, given the seeker armada had been picking off the Autobots' flying transports one by one. Your transport - the first 'shipment' of cold-constructed medics, one could say - had been attacked despite the care Autobot High Command had taken to disguise your approach, and several had been injured to varying degrees.

"It took me three cycles to patch your energon line," Ratchet mumbled, optics still focused in the past. "Thought you'd leak until nothing was left."

"Luckily, I'm a little more persistent than you thought," you teased. You rested your helm against his chassis again, losing yourself, too, to memories long past. "Didn't you say once that I was the most competent one out of the group?"

He hummed quietly in affirmation. "'Trying' never gets a field medic anywhere. You buckled down and did your job like you'd been stationed there the whole time. I admired your determination."

"You mean my stubbornness?" you corrected playfully. "I was the only one who had the bearings to go head-to-head with you."

"That, too," he admitted with a quirk of a smile. He finally tore his optics from the past landing dock, catching yours with a soft, dimmed, half-lidded gaze. Your vents stuttered minutely. "I knew you were different when you called me a 'slag-helmed old medic with a superiority complex'."

Your cooling fans kicked on in embarrassment and you glanced away, focusing instead on his finials, which twitched with mirth. "Sorry about that, I...I hadn't had much recharge the night before, and I'd been elbow-deep in more mechs than I could count. But that didn't give me an excuse to take it out on you."

"I shouldn't have snapped at you, either," he responded. "But something good came out of it."

You raised an optical ridge. "Like what?"

"That's when I knew," he told you with a small, secretive smile.

Your optics crinkled and gleamed. "Knew what? You're being so vague, Doctor. I can't fathom what you mean."

Ratchet dipped his helm slowly, missing your lip plating like you'd expected, and instead tilted his mouth against your audial and purred in a long, low murmur, "I knew you were the one I wanted to spend the rest of my days with, for better or for worse, even if you hated me. You were the greatest thing that ever happened to me."

Trying to ignore how your cooling fans had kicked into a higher setting, you swallowed and reset your vocalizer (just in case of a glitch). "'Were'?"

"You had my sparkling," he responded easily, teasingly. He drew back with the same mischievous glint in his optic that Orion had inherited.

"Oh, I see," you grinned, pushing at his face gently. "I see what happened here. Your priorities changed as soon as I gave you a mini-me. Yeah, that's _just_ wanted to hear on our annivers-"

Ratchet dodged your servo and caught your mouth in a searing kiss that instigated an instantaneous and complete factory reset of your processor. Or, at least, it felt like it. Your mind delightfully numb and you gave in to him, letting him mould your smaller frame into his. He cradled your helm with one servo, settled the other on the curve of your spinal strut where it met your pelvic array, his digits digging into the sensitive seams and anchoring you to him.

As if you'd try to leave.

You separated after a long moment of letting your fields coalesce and mingle, relishing in the warmth of each other's frames and ventilations. You tilted your helm back out of his reach, avoiding the persistent nips he laid along your neck cabling.

"I'm taking one out of Earth's book," you breathed, prying one of your servos away from his chassis and reaching into your subspace. You drew out the bottle of highgrade you'd been saving up for since the last annual cycle, brandishing it with pride. "...Happy creation day, Ratchet."

He blinked owlishly, his gaze flitting from the bottle, back up to you, then there and back again, realization seeming to only just hit him.

"How did you...?" he began, and you were honestly not surprised that he'd forgotten it was his own creation day.

"Didn't know that it had been the day of your forging when we met. Yeah, found that out a couple of solar cycles after, when I'd just gotten out of ICU," you said conversationally. "'Aid told me. I would've gotten you something - you know, for saving my life - but...resources were a bit scarce back then. It grew more meaning the longer I got to know you, and...when we sparkbonded I promised myself I'd try to do anything I could to make it special."

Ratchet seemed to put the pieces together. "The music datapad last year..."

You nodded. "And the newspark scans the year before that," you added. "Though I didn't know you'd already known about it."

He gave you a wry look. "I'm a physician. I'm _supposed_ to be able to identify symptoms of _any_ condition in a Cybertronian."

You stuck your glossa out at him, briefly. "Still, it ruined the surprise."

He let out a huff of a chuckle. "You'll have to forgive me eventually."

"Mmm...probably not. Given that _you_ knew I was carrying before _I_ did, and didn't think it important to _tell_ me."

" _Primus' sake_..." Ratchet rolled his optics. "I was going to make sure I wasn't imagining things, then you popped up with the scans yourself."

"No wonder Knockout gave me a weird look," you muttered, shaking your helm with a disdainful scoff. "Thought we'd both lost our minds."

In lieu of a response, Ratchet gently took the bottle from your servo, scrutinizing the label. His optics widening in clear shock made you feel a little bit better. "You... _Vosian_ brandy? This stuff hasn't seen the light of day in _centuries_...!"

"Old acquaintances," you repeated with an impish smirk. "They owed me for, you know, saving their lives. Sometimes on multiple occasions."

Ratchet pulled you into a tight hug, silencing anything else you could've added. You settled into his warmth, ex-venting softly as his EM field undulated and danced over your plating and blurred the edges of yours.

"Thank you," he whispered, and the heartfelt gratitude making his voice quiver sent tingles of satisfaction all through you. "You didn't have to go to so much hassle just for me."

"It wasn't a hassle _because_ it was for you," you responded, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his chin. "You deserve that and so much more, love."

His engine rumbled and his field fluttered with adoration, and as he sank to the ground and dragged you with him to enjoy the rest of the sunset (and undoubtedly enjoy the highgrade you'd scavenged for him, since he was already fumbling with the seal) you sent a brief inward murmur of thanks to the deity far, far beneath your pedes for blessing your insignificant life.

* * *

"He's asleep," Optimus rumbled from his seat on the couch, looking up from his datapad as you wandered through the door, followed closely by your positively _glowing_ sparkmate. "He finished the rest of the cube before that."

"Good," you breathed, stepping quietly around the loveseat to sit down. Your wheel wells ached from the gravel that'd seemed hell-bent on battering every flat surface within them and your joints were making active complaints about having been stuck in alt-mode on the long drive back in the cold, but your spark was warm and your field was clear with contentment. "Thank you again - you don't know how much this means to us."

Optimus made a brief dismissive gesture with his servo, clicking the datapad off and tucking it into his subspace. "The task is payment in itself. I thank you for allowing me time with him."

"Well, of _course_ ," Ratchet scoffed, easing into the spot next to you and resting a servo on the exposed joint where your upper leg met your lower. "I didn't blather on about the human concept of 'god-parents' for nothing."

Optimus let out a low hum, the closest he always got to a chuckle. His optics were dim and warm, flickering between the both of you knowingly. He seemed amused in his own way, if how the corners of his mouth twitched were any indication. "Oh, I must remind you: happy forging, old friend. I wish I had something more to offer you than words, though."

Ratchet's armor rippled over his frame as he ducked his helm in attempt to hide his flustered smile. "Thank you, Optimus, and don't worry about it - it's quite alright." His digits squeezed your knee joint subtly. "I already have everything I could want."

Optimus straightened and the both of you stood, likewise. "I would best be off. I won't take any more of your time than is necessary."

"You know you're always welcome, Optimus," you scolded, reaching out and embracing him briefly. "Our doors are open to you, after everything you've done for us."

Ratchet clasped the Prime's servo tightly, patting the larger mech's pauldron with his free one. "Be careful out there. Newsparks are likely to be causing trouble on the streets - you know how they are."

Optimus hummed again, his signature almost-smile softening his faceplate. "I'm sure I can handle myself, old friend. Rest well."

"You, as well," Ratchet returned, following him to the door and closing it behind him with a final murmured farewell.

Silence seemed to saturate your home all at once, peaceful and cozy. You let out a soft ex-vent and moved into the kitchen, spotting the cube in the sink, making quick, deft motions to turn on the water and rinse it out. You began to hum quietly, remembering a song from Earth you'd enjoyed listening to while working.

The sound flowing from your own vocalizer to your audials almost made you miss the carefully measured footfalls rounding the corner behind you.

"You should head to berth," Ratchet murmured into your audial, his arms slipping past yours to gently take the cube from your loosened digits. He set it back in the sink and twined his digits with yours to prevent you from continuing your task. "You're tired."

You were struck by an odd sense of deja-vu, a taste of irony, but since you couldn't quite name the feeling off the top of your helm you dismissed it and instead focused on the feeling of his chassis pressing into your spinal strut. "Yeah, and you're not," you responded with a soft snort. You leaned back into his chassis and closed your optics. "I'd love for an oil bath, but it's too late for that."

"In the morning, perhaps," he suggested, gently pulling you away from the sink and turning you in a lazy spin with your servo raised over your helm. He dipped his helm and kissed you. "Go ahead. I'll be there in a moment."

You wanted to argue further, but the weariness tugging at your optics and limbs begged to differ for once in your life. You acquiesced and exited the kitchen, stealing your way through the hall towards yours and Ratchet's shared berthroom. The berth had never felt so soft or giving, it seemed - you sank into its malleable embrace easily, settling on your side and powering off your optics. Already your processor began to cycle down the online functions in preparation for recharge, but you held out in wait for your sparkmate.

True to his word, Ratchet soon entered the room and meandered to his side of the berth. It didn't take long for him to mould himself to the curve of your spinal strut, settling an arm over your frame and twining his digits with yours with a gentle squeeze. You returned it, shifting back just enough that you could feel the subtle vibrations of his engine against your plating.

Silence ruled the air around you, casting a spell of tranquility that was quick to lull you into a half-offlined state. You vaguely felt a chaste kiss on the back of your helm, but it was a distant sensation, as though your body were present but your mind was drawing itself down into the depths of your frame. A subtle shift of movement disturbed the spell, ever so slightly. His field washed over you like the slow, molten flow of metal.

"Thank you," Ratchet murmured, so softly you could've missed it under the low rumble of his engine and the whirr of his spark. "For...for being my everything."

"Thank _you_ ," you whispered, smiling to yourself. "I love you."

He chuckled softly, a pleasant purr against your spinal strut, and the last thing you recognized before finally slipping into recharge was the murmur of your name and an, 'I love you more'.


End file.
